K Is for Killer

sitting right there, this big wad of dough?"
    "Well, it could be," I said.
    "Yeah, right. For all you know, Lorna was involved in off-track betting or she picked up a fur coat or bought a shitload of drugs."
    "Uhn-hun," I said, cutting in on his recital. "Or maybe the cash was lifted by the first officer at the scene."
    "There's an idea," he said, not liking the image of police corruption. "Anyway, you don't know it was cash. It could have been a check made payable to someone else. She could have moved the money over to her checking account and paid the balance on her Visa bill. Most people don't walk around with cash like that."
    "I keep picturing a wad of bills."
    "Well, try to picture something else."
    "Serena might have taken it. She pointed a finger at J.D., but really, all we have is her word she didn't go into the cabin herself. Or maybe Lorna's parents found the stash and kept their mouths shut, figuring they'd have to have money for the funeral. I was going to ask about that, but Kepler pissed me off."
    Cheney seemed amused. "You just never give up."
    "I think it's interesting, that's all. Besides, I'm desperate for a lead. Mace Kepler doesn't have a record, does he? I'd love to get him on something."
    "He's clean. We checked him out."
    "Doesn't mean he isn't guilty. It just means he hasn't been caught yet."
    "Don't get distracted." He pushed the statement across the table. "At least you know who mailed the porno tape to Mrs. K," he said.
    "It doesn't lead anywhere."
    "Don't sound so depressed."
    "Well, I hate these raggedy-ass investigations," I said. "Sometimes the line is so clear. You pick up the scent and you follow it. It may take time, but at least you know you're going someplace. This is driving me nuts."
    Cheney shrugged. "We investigated for months and didn't get anywhere."
    "Yeah, I know. I don't know what made me think I could make a difference."
    "What an egotist," he said. "You work on a case three days and you think, boom, you should be solving it."
    "Is that all it's been? Feels like I've been on this sucker for weeks."
    "Anyway, something will break. Killer's been sitting around all this time thinking he's in the clear. He's not going to like it that you're nosing around."
    "Or she."
    "Right. Let's don't get sexist about homicide," he said.
    Cheney's pager went off. Until that moment I hadn't even been aware that he was toting one. He checked the number and then excused himself, going into the rear of the bar to use the pay phone. When he came back, he said he had to leave. One of his informants had been arrested and was asking for him.
    After he left, I hung around long enough to finish my wine. Business was picking up, and the noise level was rising, along with the toxic levels of secondhand cigarette smoke. I grabbed my jacket and my shoulder bag and headed for the parking lot. It was not even midnight, but all the parking spaces were filled and cars were beginning to line the road out in front.
    The sky was overcast. The lights from the city made the cloud cover glow. Across the road, at the bird refuge, a low mist was rising from the freshwater lagoon. A faint sulfurous smell seemed to permeate the air. Crickets and frogs masked the sounds of traffic on the distant highway. Closer at hand, an approaching freight train sounded its horn like a brief organ chord. I could feel the ground rumble faintly as the searchlight swept around the bend. The man on the hike went by. I turned and stared after him. The mounting thunder of the train made his passage seem as silent as a mime's. All I was aware of was the dancing of the lights, his juggling performance, for which I was an audience of one.
    In the side lot, I spotted the rounded roofline of my VW where I'd parked it in a circle of artificial light. A shiny black stretch limousine was parked across the row of cars, blocking four vehicles, including mine. I peered toward the driver's side. The window was lowered soundlessly. I paused, pointing at my car to indicate that I was hemmed in. The chauffeur touched his cap but made no move to start his engine. Little Miss Helpful, I waited for half a second and then said, "Sorry to bother you, but if you can just move up about three feet, I think I can squeeze out. I'm the VW at the back." The chauffeur's gaze moved to a point behind me, and I turned to see what he was looking at.
    The two men had emerged from the bar and were heading in our direction, feet crunching on gravel, their progress